


Blind Sided

by RiverEagle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blind Character, Drama, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, John keeps Holmes on their toes, Mystery, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverEagle/pseuds/RiverEagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes knew that Dr. John Watson was a retired army captain, invalid home after being wounded in battle.  He’d known from the moment he first met the doctor in the lab of St. Bart’s.  What he hadn’t deduced was the real reason John was honourably discharged: that the intriguing man had kept a little-known fact secret from the world for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Pink

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to Ariane DeVere who faithfully transcribed ‘A Study in Pink’. The transcript of the episode can be found at www.arianedeverelivejournal.com/43794.html  
> All Rights go to Steven Moffat and the team at the BBC that run the show.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A retelling of the first episode of the BBC Sherlock series, with a slight change: John Watson is clinically blind.

Doctor John Watson had been back in London for six months. Six months of navigating through a world of grey. Not that he wasn’t used to a world of grey. It had been years since he’d been living with _that_ particular issue. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked around the park as he limped along.

“John?” a voice called out.

The man in question kept his head down. Surely there wouldn’t be anyone in London that knew him and actually wanted to speak to him.

Again, the voice called out; “John Watson?”

This time, John stopped. The voice had come from behind him, so the army captain did a quick about face so he was facing the direction of the voice. “Yes?” he asked, trying to determine who was actually speaking to him.

“Stamford, Mike Stamford,” the other man introduced.

John nodded and switched his cane over to his left hand. He stuck out his right. “Of course. We were at Bart’s together. Right, hello Mike.”

Mike smiled and took John’s proffered hand. “That’s right.” Releasing John’s hand, he indicated to his body. “Yeah, I know, I got fat.”

Returning the cane to his right hand, John shrugged. It wasn’t like him to pass judgement on another’s appearance. He felt himself under scrutiny as Mike looked over his own appearance. The years hadn’t been kind to him either; if he had to be honest with himself. A lot had happened to him while he’d been enlisted.

As expected, the next question out of Mike’s mouth was “What happened? I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at?”

That question had been asked so many times and in so many different ways over the past six months that John wished that people just wouldn’t ask to satisfy their own curiosity. “I got shot at,” John returned, with slight steel in his voice. He did _not_ want to talk about how the shoulder wound had been the cause for him to lose his career in the army, but how the injury had also ruined any chances of him becoming a civilian surgeon once he healed enough to head back to work. It had broken his confidence in his own abilities that he was sure it would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Mike backed away slightly when he heard the crisp, no-nonsense tone issuing out of his friend’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the man truly was. “Would you like a coffee?”

John took a deep breath and released it. “That would be great, thanks.” He limped along after the other doctor to a nearby coffee stand. “You still at Bart’s?”

“Yeah,” Mike answered. They gathered their coffees and made their way back to the park bench Mike had been sitting on before. “Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. I hate them.” Both men laughed at that. Then John felt his friend’s scrutiny on him again. “Are you staying in town until you get yourself sorted?”

“Can’t afford London on an army pension,” John said shortly.

“And you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.” Mike frowned and looked John over once more. He was beginning to think that _this_ John Watson in front of him was _not_ the same John Watson he knew fifteen years before, when they’d both studied at Bart’s together.

John looked away from the scrutiny that Mike was putting him under. God help him, he hated being watched with any sort of sympathy. “I’m not that John Watson,” he said quietly as he set his jaw. Too much had happened to him since he’d left medical college. He looked down at his left hand, with its slight tremor and balled it into a fist. Yes, he’d been wounded during his last tour of Afghanistan, and had taken a bullet to his left (and dominant) shoulder, but that hadn’t been the worst of the injuries that had sent him from the career he’d loved. Pain flashed across the nerve centres of his left eye and started spreading across to his right. He brought his hand up and rubbed it over the offending eye as he closed his eyes.

Somehow, that brought him under Mike’s watchful gaze even more. Would the man work out exactly _what_ his medical problem was or would the man be like the dozens of others he’d talk to and not even realise the extent of the damage done?

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked quietly, trying to piece together what was troubling John.

John scoffed. “Like that’s going to happen.” There was no way he’d be going to Harry for help. Not after she’d walked out on Clara and Sam.

“Are you really okay?”

“I will be. This happens occasionally. My eyesight isn’t like it used to be.”

“Why don’t you get your vision tested then?”

Again, John snorted. “That’s not going to help, really. Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing the medical field can do for me. Other than prescribe painkillers.” He took in a deep breath and calmed himself down.

“Are things really that bad?”

John didn’t bother answering. There was no way he could tell Mike how bad things really were for him now. It was bad enough that his superiors had found out he’d been holding back vital information from them since his eight month MIA status at the end of his second tour. He was lucky that it hadn’t come between him and his sense of duty before. But his superiors had been looking for a way to send him packing when they found out exactly what he’d been through at the hands of his captors.

“Have you ever considered a flat share?” Mike asked, bringing John’s thoughts back to the present.

Without looking up, John gave a dry laugh. “Who would want me as a flatmate?” He heard Mike’s chuckle of amusement. Frowning, John lifted his head and looked in the direction Mike was sitting. “What?”

“You know, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

John’s frown deepened. “Who was the first?”

“Come on, we’re going to St. Bart’s.”

John took one last sip of his coffee before he steeled himself to stand. He stood and straightened his posture. “If we’re walking, could you do me a favour?” He could almost feel the inquisitive look Mike sent his way. “This may seem like a very strange request. Could you walk about half a step in front of me on my right?”

“Okay. May I ask why?”

John’s lips twitched slightly when Mike moved to stand where he’d asked. “Thanks. The sun’s been doing my head in today.” Well, it wasn’t the full reason why John had made the request, but it was close enough to the truth that Mike wouldn’t suspect. He’d gotten very good at hiding his ‘disability’ from outside eyes. In fact, if he hadn’t been shot, no one would be any the wiser.

“You’re welcome.”

**SHJWSHJW**

“Here, use mine,” John offered as he dug his phone out of his pocket. Actually, Harry’s phone if he thought about it. It didn’t help that it was practically useless to him until someone taught him how to fully utilise the bloody thing.

Sherlock Holmes stood up from where he was experimenting to take in the newcomer with Mike. “Thanks.” He looked over at Mike with a frown on his face as he made his way over to where John was holding out his phone.

“Oh, this is an old friend of mine. John Watson.”

Taking the phone off John, Sherlock practically turned away from the (much) shorter man. That one brief glance had told him all he really needed to know about the retired army doctor. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked as he began typing on the phone. He didn’t need to see the glances sent between the other two men in the room to know that John would be wanting to know what he was on about.

“Sorry?” John’s voice was laced with confusion.

Sherlock briefly looked back up at John to make sure that his deductions were correct. “Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John shifted nervously under another near stranger’s scrutiny. “Afghanistan. But how did you…?”

He was cut off by Sherlock greeting the woman behind him. “Ah, Molly. Thank you.” He handed John’s phone back to him, and John was fortunate to have judged the distance correctly as Sherlock released the phone into his hand. Taking the mug off Molly, Sherlock turned his back on both John and Molly. “What happened to the lipstick?”

“It wasn’t working for me.”

Though John didn’t turn to take in the woman’s face, he could pick up a few things from her tone. One: she had tried to impress Sherlock and it hadn’t worked. Two: she was nervous about something. Three: someone, most likely Sherlock with the way her voice trembled, had made her feel inferior. Which told him a lot about the man he’d just lent his phone to. The man that didn’t seem to pick up on social cues.

“Really?” he heard Sherlock’s voice drift back to him and interrupt his thought process. “I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s… too small now.”

Molly just shrugged and left the room before John could turn around to greet her. Perhaps later he’d be able to introduce himself properly. That was, if he met the woman again.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

John frowned and looked around the room. Who was this strange man talking to now? He turned his head in the direction of where he knew Mike was standing, but the man wasn’t answering the question. In fact, John had the distinct impression the question was directed at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?”

“What are you on about?”

“Flatmates should know the worst of each other, don’t you think?” Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s state of confusion.

Shifting slightly to ease the pressure on his ‘injured’ leg, John’s frown deepened. “Okay…” John turned his attention to Mike. “Did you tell him about me?”

Mike smirked slightly and shrugged his shoulders. “Not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?”

Sherlock was busy gathering his things together. “I did. I told Mike this morning that it would be impossible to find someone willing to share a flat with me. And here he is, after lunch, with an old friend just invalided home from Afghanistan. Wasn’t that big of a leap.”

John was taken aback by the forward nature of this man he _didn’t_ know, and who _didn’t_ know him. “How did you know about Afghanistan?”

Sherlock ignored his question. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We’ll meet there tomorrow afternoon at 4pm.” He froze slightly at the strange look getting sent his way by John. He was used to deducing a person’s life story by the way they spoke, their actions, and even their clothing and to have them look at him with revulsion or even hate, but to have someone look at him with something akin to surprise was unnerving. “Problem?”

“We’ve just met, and we’re going to view a flat together? Just like that?” John asked. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock smirked. “I know you’re an army doctor just been invalided home from Afghanistan. Your brother is worried about you but you don’t want to go to him for help; probable reason is that you don’t like his drinking; more likely the fact he just walked out on his wife. Your psychologist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid. Enough to go on, don’t you think?”

“How did you know that?”

“Simple really: I observe.” Sherlock was about to head out the door when John called out after him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are, or where we’re meeting. I don’t know anything about you, and it seems like you know my life story.”

Sherlock stepped back into the room. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He turned to look at Mike. “Afternoon.”

John looked around the room in shock, wondering what had just happened. He wondered if this Sherlock person had actually picked up on the one thing many people overlooked: that John Watson, retired captain of the RAMC, was blind. He looked toward Mike with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Yeah,” Mike said with a grin. “He’s always like that.”

**SHJWSHJW**

The next afternoon, John made his way toward Baker Street and the flat he was to look at with Sherlock. He wondered how he would manage to find the place without his sight, or without letting on that he was, in fact, blind to the most observant man he’d ever met. He felt someone brush past him and he cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The man, for John could tell instantly the person who had stopped at his call was a man, turned to face him. “Can I help you?”

“I was wondering how far away from 221B Baker Street I am,” John replied, making sure he looked a little sheepish. “I… uh…” he lifted his left hand up and indicated to his slightly unfocused eyes. Most of the time, people didn’t realise that he couldn’t really focus on their faces, or even hold eye contact. It also put people off when they realised that he was blind and they couldn’t pick it up by the distinctive cloudy irises usually associated with blindness. But it seemed that the man wasn’t put out.

The man smiled, and gave John the desired instructions. “There’s a coffee shop half way down this block on the left. Once you get to that, 221B should be on the left of that shop.”

“Thank you,” John said with a smile. He could sense the stranger looking confused at him when he brought his eyes up to focus on the man’s face. Sometimes it was good to be so convincing in his act to appear ‘normal’. Again, he wondered how long he could keep his ‘apparent’ sight from Sherlock.

He moved off down the street, his cane navigating any potential tripping points as well as keeping him steady on his feet. The smell of brewed coffee was getting stronger, so he knew that he was getting close. He almost tuned out the car pulling up behind him as he approached what he thought was the front door of 221B Baker Street, but he realised the car sounded like a taxi.

“Hello,” Sherlock called out, and John stopped where he was to turn toward the sound of the mad man’s voice.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please,” the consulting detective said, holding out his hand for John to shake. John accepted the hand without hesitation – one of the perks of having enhanced hearing, he guessed.

John looked around the area. From what he remembered of the area itself, it was one of the upper ends of London. Definitely well above what he could afford on his army pension and disability allowance combined. “Prime location, this,” he said. “Must cost a fortune.”

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a deal for this place. A few years ago, I helped her husband out on a death sentence in Florida.”

John took a step back. “What? You got him out of it?”

“No,” Sherlock grinned. “I ensured it.” The door of 221B opened and Mrs. Hudson stepped out.

“Sherlock, hello.” She opened her arms and the man in question willingly stepped into her embrace before pulling back.

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”

Mrs. Hudson turned to take in John’s appearance. He was unassuming in his cream jumper and blue jeans. She smiled and welcomed him in.

John returned the smile as best he could. He stepped forward slightly before he stopped and indicated that Sherlock should enter the home before him. The doctor, ever since he had lost his sight, had found that he was more confident going into new places when he was following behind someone else – especially if he could place his trust in that person.

Sherlock seemed to pick up on John’s hesitation of entering the flat first, so he stepped up and went first. He heard a small breath of relief coming from the doctor when he took the lead. Frowning slightly, the consulting detective wondered if he’d missed anything about John. No, he was sure he hadn’t as he glanced back over his shoulder at the shorter man. John, after all, was relatively easy to read. He paused on the landing, waiting for John to climb the stairs and join him before he entered.

John, to his credit, ignored the lingering stares he felt being sent his way by both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. Sometimes he really disliked stairs. They were the worst. Lifting his face up, he could almost feel the questioning gaze sent his way by Sherlock. If the man didn’t know by now that he was blind, John was determined he was going to try and keep it that way for as long as he could manage.

“Welcome to 221B,” Sherlock said and opened the doorway into the flat. He entered first, like before, and John followed.

Briefly glancing around, as any visually abled person would do, John smiled. He’d stopped just within the entrance, allowing himself to work out where it was safe to walk. Clicking twice with his left hand, he allowed the sound to wash over him. “This is very nice. Very nice indeed,” he said.

Sherlock smiled widely. “My thoughts exactly! Which is why I’ve moved straight in.”

John moved forward in the direction he thought the lounge chairs were and took another look around. There was an open space on his left, with what he assumed was the kitchen. So the bedrooms must be to the right of the entrance.

“So what do you think then, Doctor Watson?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she entered the flat behind the two men. “There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing it.”

John swallowed. More stairs? Turning his head around to where he knew Mrs. Hudson would be standing and said, “Of course we’ll be needing it.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ve got all sorts around here,” Mrs. Hudson ploughed on, not really taking into consideration that John had only met Sherlock the previous day. “Mrs. Turner next door’s got…” her voice dropped to a whisper, but John still picked up her discomfort as she continued, “married ones.” Turning around, she walked into the kitchen. “Oh, Sherlock. Look at the state of the kitchen.”

So he’d been right, John thought. That open area just off what he could picture was the living area was the kitchen. He was glad he’d been able to pick that much up without being told. He cleared his throat and refused to turn his attention toward where he was sure Sherlock was. Instead, he busied himself with making his way further into the room and to the lounge chair he’d been able to pick out through his hearing and smell. He was surprised that the tricks he was using to navigate around this strange flat hadn’t been picked up by Sherlock; but then, if John had really thought about it, he’d learnt to use several different sound echoes to navigate that people rarely associated with blind navigation and he’d used a number of them to get around in the strange flat. Snapping his fingers, the use of voices and his cane were just a few of the tricks he used. Plus, scents and touch were dead useful for finding his way around. He dropped himself into the chair he’d made his way to and turned his head in Sherlock’s direction. “I looked you up online last night. The Science of Deduction.”

Sherlock turned from the window. “And?” he asked with a hint of pride.

“It said that you could tell a pilot by his left thumb and a corporate lawyer by the cut of his suit,” John shot back with a hint of disbelief in his voice. If the man could tell what a person did for a living by just a small piece of evidence, then he wondered how much of his ‘disability’ one could read?

“Yes; I can also read your military career in your face and leg, and your brother’s drinking habits by your phone.”

“How?” The doctor refrained from smirking. At least, Sherlock wasn’t infallible if he kept on insisting Harry was John’s brother, not his sister.

Sherlock didn’t reply as he returned his attention out the window. Mrs. Hudson rustled some paper and mentioned something about serial suicides.

John frowned at that. He hadn’t really been paying a lot of attention to the news since he’d returned from Afghanistan, so had missed the three suicides that the landlady had been talking about.

“Four,” Sherlock interrupted. “There’s been a forth and there’s something different about this one.” He turned his back to the window as if he knew that they would soon be joined by another person. John stiffened slightly when he recognised the distinctive smell of DI Lestrade. “Where?”

Lestrade flickered his gaze slightly at the two other people in 221B and turned back to Sherlock. The police inspector hadn’t been surprised at Mrs. Hudson’s presence, but the second man, John, had thrown him for a second. What on earth was the retired captain doing here? He shook it off and focused his attention on the consulting detective as he filled him in on the death of the fourth victim. 

It wasn’t long before Sherlock had left John alone in 221B with Mrs. Hudson. “Is he always like that?”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head as she answered, “Yes. Look at him dashing about. My husband was just the same.” The woman came and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “You’re the sitting down type, though. I can tell.”

Before she could pull away, John captured her wrist with his left hand. “Could you do me a favour? Can you describe the flat to me? How many pieces of furniture are there? Where are they?”

Mrs. Hudson moved around to face John, and it was only then that she focused her attention on the man’s face. “Why? Are you unable to see for yourself?”

“I found my way to this chair. Sherlock was standing at a window over there;” he pointed in the direction he meant; “the kitchen’s behind me. There’s a gas fireplace to my immediate left.” Looking up at where he assumed Mrs. Hudson was standing, he sent her a pleading look. Before the woman could do as requested, Sherlock had returned to the main entranceway to the flat.

“You’re a doctor,” he said, pulling on his gloves.

John blinked and looked to where the tall detective stood. “Yes.”

“In fact, you’re an _army_ doctor.”

“What of it?” the blond man asked, standing. Mrs. Hudson moved away and back downstairs.

“Any good?”

“Very good.”

Sherlock stepped further into the room and continued. “Seen many injuries then; violent deaths.”

John nodded. “Mmm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

The shorter man frowned slightly, wondering where Sherlock was heading with his line of enquiry. “Yes. Far too much. Enough to last me a lifetime.”

And that was when the penny dropped: Sherlock’s next comment. “Wanna see some more?”

Sherlock had _no_ idea how much John actually _wanted_ that. To actually see some of the grittier parts of life again with his own eyes and not just through his hearing, smell and touch. Or if he was honest with himself, not even through the artificial lenses he’d had implanted in his retina. And he couldn’t stop the grin he felt from spreading across his face as he agreed to go with Sherlock to a crime scene.

Once they’d bid Mrs. Hudson a farewell and ended up in a taxi, Sherlock looked across the backseat to where John was looking out the window.

“Okay,” Sherlock broke the silence. “You’ve got questions.”

John didn’t want to give much away; though he’d only met the consulting detective the previous day and had said neither of them knew a lot about the other, he knew a fair bit more about the consulting detective than he let on. “Who are you? What do you do?” That was safe. That was what anyone would probably ask just after meeting someone new.

“What do you think?”

Looking around and catching Sherlock’s gaze, John said, “I’d say private detective…”

“But?”

“Scotland Yard doesn’t go to private detectives.”

Sherlock smiled. “You’re right. They don’t. I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world.”

“Which means what, exactly?” John asked.

“When the police are out of their depths, which is always, they consult me. I help them out.”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

The taller man shot John a hurt look before a smirk settled on his lips. Well then, if that’s the way John felt, he was about to prove his abilities. “Yesterday, when we first met, I asked you ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’ and you looked surprised.”

John was quiet, and the silence within the cab grew before he realised that Sherlock was waiting for him to say something. “How did you guess that?”

“I didn’t guess. I _saw_ ,” Sherlock replied. “It’s all in the way you stand, and your hair cut. That says military. Your conversation with Mike as you entered the lab suggests you studied at Bart’s. Therefore, army doctor. Then your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists, means you’ve spent some time abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp is bad when you walk but when you stand, you don’t ask for a chair, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s partially psychosomatic. That means that the circumstances of the original injury was traumatic. Wounded in action. Suntan. Therefore, Afghanistan or Iraq.”

The doctor in question felt his eyes widen in surprise. “Therapist?”

“Your limp’s psychosomatic, _of course_ you’ve got a therapist. Then there’s your brother. Your phone is expensive, e-mail enabled, MP-3 player but you’re looking for a flat share. You wouldn’t waste money on something like that. So it’s a gift then.” Sherlock held out his hand and felt John slide the phone into his hand. He looked it over again as he continued to deduce things about Harry Watson from the phone. “Scratches. Not just one, but many over time. Means that the phone’s been in the same pocket with keys and coins. You wouldn’t treat your one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. The next bit’s easy.”

“The engraving,” John said.

“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero looking for somewhere to live, so no extend family, at least, not one you’re close to. Therefore, brother. Next question: who’s Clara? Three kisses means romantic relationship. This is an expensive gift, so that states wife, not girlfriend. Now, who would give this away, the model’s not even six months old yet? Marriage is in trouble then. If she’d walked out on him, he’d have kept it – sentiment and all that. So if he’s just giving this away, it means that _he_ walked out on _her._ He’s given it to you, meaning he wants you to keep in touch. But you’re looking for cheap accommodation, and you’re not going to your brother for help. That means you’ve got problems with him: maybe you liked his wife, maybe you _don’t_ like his drinking.”

John blinked as he let all of Sherlock’s deductions wash over him. Other than getting the fact that Harry was his brother wrong, and that his limp was psychosomatic (defence mechanism for using a cane), everything else the man had said was _right._ “How did you know about the drinking?”

“Shot in the dark,” the detective said. “Good one, though. That’s to do with the charging socket. Scuff marks. You never see a sober man’s phone with them; you never see a drunk’s _without_ them.” He handed the phone back to John and looked out the window. “And there you go.”

“With what?”

“Proof. The police _don’t_ consult amateurs.”

“That was amazing.”

Sherlock frowned and turned his attention back to the doctor. “You really think so?” John nodded. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they say?”

“Piss off. Did I get anything wrong?”

“You got it right. Harry and I don’t get along, never have. Clara and Harry split up. They’re getting a divorce. Harry drinks and I don’t like it.”

Sherlock allowed his surprise to filter through. He _hadn’t_ really expected to get everything right. It looked like he _had._

John smiled to himself as he added, “Harry is short for Harriet.” The taxi stopped and John slid out of the cab, leaving Sherlock in the backseat to pay. Making his way over to the police tape, John wondered when the man was going to catch him up. Everything Sherlock had said in the taxi was mostly correct, and yet, there was one glaring thing that the man _hadn’t_ brought up. His lack of sight. He wondered about that as the two of them were led into the building where the fourth suicide had happened.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade called out as they entered the ground floor.

Sherlock nodded toward the detective inspector. “You need to put one of these on.”

‘One of what?’ John desperately wanted to ask. He felt an overall being pushed into his hands. His heart sank at that. It was hard enough to get dressed correctly in the mornings, so being asked to get into an overall, _in front_ of others, was hard for John to handle.

“Who’s this?” he heard Lestrade ask, even though the other man knew full well who he was.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock responded.

“But who _is_ he?”

“I _said_ he’s with me.”

John shook his head at the banter with the two men and tugged the overall up over his arms and zipped himself in. It hadn’t actually been that difficult to do once he realised the other two men with him were busy arguing and weren’t focused on him. He wasn’t sure what had changed in the months since he was shot and now, but he definitely was more self-conscious now than he’d ever been in the army.

“Where are we?” Sherlock asked.

“Upstairs,” Lestrade replied. Sherlock headed to the stairs, with John and Lestrade following after him. The detective inspector led the way upstairs to where the body lay, explaining the information that they had discovered so far: the woman’s name and who’d found the body. “I can give you two minutes,” he added as they entered the room.

John was silent as he entered behind Lestrade and Sherlock. He had to pause just inside the doorway as he felt his sense of smell assaulted. The air was pungent and stale, almost musty. The detective beside him noticed John’s stiffened form; and if Lestrade hadn’t known John, he would have thought the man had no stomach.

The consulting detective looked over at the two of them and paused slightly with his current deductions. John, it seemed, wasn’t as ready for the gritty ‘work’ as Sherlock initially suspected. The man’s face was slightly off colour. He turned back to the body he was supposed to be working on and he stood.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked.

“A few,” Sherlock replied, again taking a glance in their direction. Oh, that was interesting: John seemed to relax at hearing the baritone of the consulting detective.

“She’s German,” Anderson put in from the open doorway behind John. “‘ _Rache_ ’ is German for revenge.” 

Sherlock glowered at Anderson and walked across the room in a few quick strides. But not before he noticed John stiffen and grip his cane tighter at the unfamiliar voice coming from behind him. “Thank you for that insightful piece of information,” the consultant drawled, closing the door. Pulling out his phone, he checked recent maps.

“Is she German?” Lestrade asked, and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when John seemed to relax slightly in the room.

“No. But she is from out of town, in London overnight until she returns to Cardiff tomorrow. Obvious so far.”

John released his death grip on his cane and asked, “How is that obvious?”

“What about the message?” Lestrade put in.

Sherlock ignored the questions for the time being and turned his full attention on John. “What do you think, Doctor Watson?”

John sent a confused look toward Lestrade before enquiring, “About what?”

“The body of course. You being a medical man, after all.”

“We have our own medical team, Sherlock!”

“None that will work with me, and I need my own data.”

“I’m breaking every rule in the book just to let _you_ in here. Now you want me to let this tag-a-long examine the body?”

John rolled his eyes and stepped forward into the room. He knew Lestrade liked a good argument when he could get it. And, from what he’d witnessed of Sherlock, the consulting detective just liked to out prove anyone that he was the smartest person in the room. The next thing he knew was that the argument was halted when he knelt down beside the body. Smiling slightly to himself, he could almost feel the questioning glances sent his way by both men.

“She’s been in some heavy rain recently,” John said. Without even touching the coat, he knew it would still be damp; that _was_ one thing about his heightened sense of smell he appreciated – being able to distinguish individual smells that most people couldn’t, or didn’t, pay attention to. The coat the woman was wearing had at least some woollen element to it, and most people avoided to be around wet wool for long periods of time because of the horrid smell. He slipped his fingers into the lining of the coat and placed them underneath her armpit. “I’d say less than four hours ago. Her coat is still damp.” Sherlock found himself staring in shock. “When was the body found?”

Lestrade frowned at John’s actions. “Does it matter?”

Removing his hand from within her coat, John lifted the woman’s right hand and carefully made it ‘look’ like he was checking her skin. “It does when she’s only been gone for just under an hour,” he commented. “No alcohol on her breath, so asphyxiation, probably. Passed out and choked on her own vomit. Probable cause of death is likely drugs or poison.” Slowly making his way to his feet, the doctor stepped away from the body. “I’ve probably overlooked something important, though. Like how you know she’s only here overnight.” The last part was sent in Sherlock’s direction. Lestrade almost snorted at the seemingly shocked expression on Sherlock’s face as John turned to look at them. The shorter man patiently waited to hear about how good his reasoning was, and to learn about the things he missed. “Did I miss anything important?”

Sherlock stepped up and took over the deductions, agreeing with John’s deductions on the rain, which was where he’d found where she’d come from: Cardiff. He added his own, giving a life history of the dead woman – by her clothing, jewellery and appearance. And why he knew she’d only be in London overnight by the small mud splatter on her left leg that wasn’t present on the right. With that, Sherlock left downstairs, heading downstairs like a bloodhound on a chase. Both Lestrade and John followed him out of the room and to the central staircase. They both heard the man shouting something about murderers, mistakes and pink.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow before he shook his head. He turned back to the room with the dead woman, before he stopped and really looked John over. “You know, I never really expected to see you here with him.”

John set his jaw. “You probably didn’t expect to see me again after Harry walked out on Clara and Sam.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You are Sam’s uncle, and Clara wouldn’t cut you out of your godson’s life just to spite Harry.”

The doctor nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ll see you around, Greg.” He began his decent before Lestrade called out one last time.

“John?” The man in question paused and tilted his head up. There was no reason for him to pretend he could see with Lestrade; the detective inspector had known him for years, and knew of his ‘disability’. When Lestrade saw that he had John’s attention, he smiled. “After this is over, let’s go for a pint.”

John turned to flash a smile in Lestrade’s direction. “You’ve got my number.”

“Clara’s not going to let me forget it, after all you’ve done for her and Sam.” Lestrade watched John go down the stairs a few moments more before he turned and went back into the room with Jennifer Wilson’s body in it.

**SHJWSHJW**

Lestrade made his way downstairs not long after John had left. He paused at the doorway of the house and frowned when he spotted John and Donovan at the police tape. From the look of it, Donovan was trying to scare John off, and he snorted to himself. Like _that_ was going to happen with John. “Donovan!” he called out.

“Coming!” she’d called back to him before she took one more disdainful look over John’s seemingly unruffled exterior. Lestrade winced slightly at the parting shot the sergeant sent John’s way: “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

“You realise he’s not going to do that now,” Lestrade said with a sigh. “One thing I know about Doctor Watson is that he’s a stubborn bastard.”

Donovan scoffed. “He’s a pushover, sir.”

The detective inspector held in his retort. Sergeant Sally Donovan hadn’t been in the room when John had taken Sherlock down a peg; she wasn’t aware of what the doctor carefully hid behind that mask of humility and seemingly ordinary exterior. No one really knew exactly what John was capable of unless he actually allowed them to see beyond the ‘mask’. Oh, Lestrade was looking forward to his friend putting Donovan in her place; though to be fair, he knew it probably should be him doing that.

“Don’t underestimate him, Donovan. He’s not a man you want to get on the bad side of.”

She paused, really thinking about what her boss had said about one John Watson. She frowned as she realised Lestrade was actually speaking from personal experience like he’d had dealings with John before. “How do you know him?”

“You have met my soon to be ex-sister-in-law, Donovan.”

“Harry Watson, yes. Unfortunately.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, waiting for the sergeant to connect the dots. He hid his grin as he watched her jaw drop. Donovan had met Harriet Watson, and the woman had mentioned her brother a fair few times. The brother that had supposedly been in the army and knew his way around a gun as well as he knew his way around a body. Her eyes darted between the retreating form of Doctor Watson and Lestrade as she did a good impression of a fish. There was the reaction he wanted.

**SHJWSHJW**

John hadn’t really been expecting to be picked up by an unmarked car, but he couldn’t really complain about the ride. Just the way in which it was done, really. He could have done without the theatrics of phone booths ringing, thank you very much. At least he knew where he was going, even if the woman with him didn’t want to say.

So, when the car pulled up at the semi-abandoned warehouse, John knew they were five blocks south of the Houses of Parliament. He pulled himself the car and strode forward. The empty space echoed ominously around him, giving the man a sense of how vast the space was. He smiled slightly to himself. That echo was also beneficial for him working out where things were; he could tell that someone (and someone a good head taller than him) was standing in the centre of the room, with a straight back chair a few feet away.

“Why am I here?” John asked when he was level with the chair.

“Do have a seat, Doctor Watson,” a crisp voice issued out. Ah, the man obviously was one of the ‘upper’ class and was used to people following commands. “Your leg must be hurting you.” The accent was similar to Sherlock’s, John realised.

“I’m fine thanks,” he rebutted, standing a little taller. “You know, I do have a mobile phone. Which you could have called me on. Instead of wasting time on the theatrics.”

“Ah, there’s the bravery of the solider I was expecting. Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

“Was there something you wanted?”

“What are your intentions toward Sherlock Holmes?”

John set his jaw. Was this what his ‘kidnapping’ was all about? Sherlock? Good lord, there were easier, and kinder, ways to get information. “I just met the man yesterday,” he replied. “And frankly, I don’t see how that concerns you.”

“Ah, but since yesterday, you have moved into 221B Baker Street, and are solving crimes with him.”

“Who are you?” John asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Call me a concerned third party.”

The solider gripped his hospital issued cane tighter. “Concerned third party? That’s rich.” He paused, trying to place all the pieces together. “Why are you so interested in Sherlock?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.” Ah, John thought. There was actual genuine concern in the man’s voice. So that meant that whoever he was talking to was somehow connected to Sherlock. “I would rather my concern go unmentioned. We have what you call a… difficult relationship.” That clinched it for John. Probably close family member; father or more likely, judging by the youthfulness of the voice, older brother. He’d heard the same worry in his own voice when he was called up to deal with Harry. “If you _do_ decide to move into 221B Baker Street, I will pay you…”

“No,” John interrupted. “It’s not your concern what _I_ decide to do, and you’re not going to buy me off.”

Mycroft backed off slightly. The elder Holmes hadn’t really known what to expect when he confronted his younger brother’s new potential flatmate. Yes, Mycroft had had his people pull John’s service record, and he’d been surprised to see the number of medals the doctor had been awarded before being honourably discharged six weeks previously. “I haven’t even mentioned a price.”

“Not interested.” John felt his phone vibrate with an incoming text alert, but he ignored it. Lifting his gaze, he focused on where he thought the man’s face would be.

“For someone with trust issues, you are very loyal, very quickly.”

A nerve jumped in the shorter man’s jaw. He was getting tired of the veiled threats sent his way by who he assumed (quite correctly) was Sherlock’s brother. “Frankly, Mr. Holmes, I am tired and a little put out by your theatrics. Whatever happens next is of _no_ concern of yours.”

For the second time that evening, John Watson had completely stunned a member of the Holmes family. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and looked over Captain Watson, MD, once more. “For a blind man, you are rather observant, Doctor Watson.”

“Are we done?” John spat, not even flinching when Mycroft stepped closer and into the shorter man’s personal space.

“You tell me,” Mycroft replied softly. And when John connected his unnerving (bright) blue eyes with his, the minor government official was wondering how he could have been _so_ wrong with his assumption that John was blind. There were no tell-tale cloudy (dull) irises usually associated with blindness, and the man wasn’t afraid to meet people’s eyes. It was just that John didn’t do it often. But Mycroft was _rarely_ wrong with his deductions.

John executed a perfect about face and started back to the car. His cane was thudding against the ground with each (faked) limping step and Mycroft smiled slightly. There… “How long have you been blind?” 

John paused and did a half turn. “Excuse me?”

“From the way you hold that cane, and the way it hits the ground a microsecond before your foot, you use the sound it creates to navigate your way around. But you are still getting used to using it to help you navigate. I would say that you’ve been blind for a short period – perhaps no more than two or three months.” Mycroft paused and sent John a look of wonder. “Which is rather remarkable. It takes the most resourceful person twice that to even come to terms with the loss of one of their senses. Longer when the sense in question is one we rely on the most.” The man stepped closer to John. “Could your blindness be the reason you feign a limp?”

“Could your _concern_ and _constant worry_ be seen as the actions of an overbearing controlling _parent_ a grown man does _not_ need and would find _stifling_? Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft Holmes watched John stride away, the limp gone and the cane barely tapping out in the empty warehouse. There were two things that stuck out in the man’s mind from meeting one John Watson: he had seriously underestimated the retired army captain, and he hadn’t felt so berated in _years_.

**SHJWSHJW**

John pulled out his phone and threw it onto Sherlock’s lap. “Send the bloody text yourself.” He was still unnerved by the fact he’d just the elder Holmes brother, and that the man had guessed at the real reason for his discharge. Moving to stand near the window, he was surprised that he didn’t trip over anything.

Sherlock sat up. There was something different about John: something had happened in the time between John leaving the crime scene and returning to the flat at Baker Street. John stood a little straighter now, and hadn’t really limped at all upon his return; although he _did_ cling to the cane in his hand a little tighter. Flicking his gaze at the phone in his hand, Sherlock realised that though John had received his texts, the man hadn’t actually had the decency to open _or_ read them. Something _had_ definitely happened then.

He hated to ask, but unless he did, there was no way he could collect data on what had changed. “What happened?”

“With what?” John asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at his new potential flatmate. The detective was surprised that John didn’t respond other than sending him a brief stoic look before returning his attention back to the street outside. “Something happened since I left you with Lestrade. What?”

“You’re the resident genius. You figure it out.”

The lanky detective let his eyes roam over John’s brooding form. “Your limp’s gone.”

John covered a snort. “Never really had a limp. That’s the first thing you saw?”

“The most obvious. Yet you still clutch that cane as if it’s a lifeline.” Sherlock stood up and bound over to the doctor. John winced slightly at the rush of movement within his personal space and moved slightly away from Sherlock’s imposing height. With that movement, John knocked some files over and he heard them slide over the floor around him. The detective frowned at the jittery actions of the former army doctor. He doubted _anyone_ in the army would actually be that nervous around others, or care too much about personal space.

Holding out John’s phone, Sherlock waited for John to reach out and take it from him. But John never did. It was like the shorter man couldn’t see the phone or Sherlock’s hand, that was right in front of him.

That was when it clicked. How it all fit together. John was _blind_. There were so many things that the doctor did that diverted even the most observant person away from his ‘disability’. John strode around new places confidently, and without prompting, had found both a lounge chair in this very apartment as well as the body at Lauriston Gardens. There were times he’d paused at the entrances of both places first, yet Sherlock had brushed that off as being polite. And hadn’t the man met his gaze at Bart’s the previous day, and again today when he’d asked about John’s previous career? He’d also mentioned looking Sherlock up on the internet, and had said something that indicated he’d read what was on the site. There had been no tell-tale signs in the man’s gaze to indicate he was blind.

But there were things that John did that were unmistakably tells that pointed to blindness. His need to for others to go ahead of him into somewhere new. The way that his cane would hit the ground a microsecond before his foot. That clicking he did with his fingers. His shoes probably were embedded with soles that created a distinct echo as well, no matter what surface he walked upon. Then the way that he’d tensed up at the crime scene; the smell, though unpleasant to a full-bodied person, was probably overwhelming to someone with a highly developed sense of smell. And there was the way that John just tensed when Sherlock _had_ basically invaded his personal space without so much as a warning.

Sherlock was a genius, but how could he have missed all those signs pointing to John being blind? “How long have you been blind?”

“You going to guess less than three months, too?” John asked.

 _Too?_ Sherlock thought. Had John met someone in between the crime scene and returning to the flat? “That would be the obvious conclusion, based on your military career and when you were discharged, but it’s been longer than that. Somehow, you found a way around the blindness issue and still served a year, or perhaps two. But no longer than that.”

“A year,” John confirmed. “Before I started getting headaches and I was shot. I spent 7 months in rehab. Then there was an incident during my final month and I was… chemically attacked. The doctors blame the chemicals for my blindness. I was discharged two weeks later. That was a month ago.”

“But that wasn’t the case?” Sherlock asked. He was only asking for _John’s_ benefit; he already knew that it wasn’t the case and not the reason for John’s loss of sight.

“No,” John replied quietly. He didn’t say more than that. And from what Sherlock saw in the man’s haunted face, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what the doctor had gone through in the last three years. John reached up and almost took his phone back when it started ringing. Pulling his hand away, he pointed directly at the phone. “Who is that?”

“The person who has Jennifer Wilson’s phone.”

“Who has her phone?”

“Her murderer.”

John frowned. “So why would the murderer be calling my mobile?”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “Because I just texted Jennifer Wilson’s number with a message that would indicate she was still alive. If the mobile had been found by any old person, they’d ignore a text like that. But for the murderer…”

“They would panic,” John finished.

“Care for some dinner?”

The shorter man burst into laughter, and asked, “What?”

“We’re going to catch ourselves a killer. I know this great little restaurant that overlooks Northumberland Street.”

“You get off on this, don’t you?” John asked as he pulled on his coat. “That’s what Sergeant Donovan told me at the crime scene. That you do this for fun.”

“And I said ‘could be dangerous’. Yet here you are.”

Shaking his head in amusement, John followed Sherlock out the door.

**SHJWSHJW**

John took in a deep breath as he steadied his hand. No one would believe that a blind man could shoot, let alone hold a gun steady. After Sherlock had left him in Angelo’s to chase after the cabbie, the doctor had made his way back to Baker Street, only to find Lestrade and his team sweeping through the place for drugs. All because Sherlock had found the pink lady’s case in a dumpster and had taken it back to the flat _without_ informing the police of the found evidence.

He’d wisely stayed out of the argument between Sherlock and Lestrade; Lestrade had told John about Sherlock not long after the consulting detective had started working with New Scotland Yard five years before. But when Sherlock turned around and started asking John about what he’d say in his dying moments, Lestrade got highly offended for his friend. John, it seemed, didn’t really take offence at Sherlock’s tone until Sherlock had snapped “Use your imagination!”

“I don’t have to,” John had returned, flat and unemotional. The consulting detective had taken a step back from the unassuming doctor at that declaration, unaware of how often John had come to losing his life before he’d met the detective the day before.

That didn’t stop Sherlock from continuing on, eventually finding out where the dead woman’s mobile was and leaving in a taxi. Lestrade and his team soon followed Sherlock away from Baker Street, leaving John alone in 221B Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson. It hadn’t been long after that that the search for Jennifer Wilson’s mobile phone pinged again, giving John a location halfway across town.

Which, of course, led the doctor to an empty college, searching one wing of the place for any sign of Sherlock and the cabbie murderer. When the man realised his lack of sight was slowing him down, John knew he had little choice but to use the ‘gift’ from his imprisonment as a prisoner of war. Applying pressure to the bridge of his nose, he blinked a few times to adjust to the computer simulated images that began transmitting to the visual centres of his mind. He winced slightly as he drew his hand away from his face; whenever he used the lenses that had been implanted into his retina, he got a slight burning sensation behind the eyes that, after a year and a half of using the cameras, also caused him headaches.

John stopped in his tracks as he thought about the one place most killers would head to in a college: the cafeteria. And if he really thought about it, any college cafeteria was located on the west side of the east wing. He groaned when he realised he was in the _west_ wing of the school, not the east wing. Making a quick decision, John made his way to the southernmost classroom on the east side of the building he was in – and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the two people in the cafeteria in the building opposite him. Good lord, was that tall, lanky man with his back to the window really Sherlock?

The ex-army doctor raised his gun and took aim at the shorter, stouter, and definitely _older_ man than what he’d pictured Sherlock to be. He took in a deep breath to steady himself and fired. Sherlock jumped at the sound of a bullet whistling past him and into the cabbie. John ducked away from the window to avoid being seen. Sherlock must never know that it had been _John_ who had killed a man to save his life.

He cleared off quickly, as to avoid any unfortunate questions sent his way by the police. Because he knew that there would be a heck of a lot of them once it became common knowledge he was _blind._ It took him a while to get two blocks away without being spotted by the approaching police officers and ambulance driver. Once there, John pulled off the gloves he wore (he’d taken precautions, after all) and threw them in the nearby dumpster. Pulling his shirt down over the waistband of his jeans and the handle of his Browning, he bent over and picked up his cane. 

He stood and ran his hand over his face. The cameras that gave him sight switched off and he breathed a sigh of relief as it relieved the headache that was building behind his eyes. Call him paranoid, he was always worried that people could spy on him whenever he used the ‘gift’. Slowly, he began his return to the school. That was when his phone rang. Digging into his pockets, he pulled out the mobile and answered it.

“Watson.”

 _“Where are you?”_ Lestrade’s voice was on the other end of the phone.

“I took a walk,” John replied.

_“Could you get yourself to Roland-Kerr College? Sherlock’s being an arse.”_

“What happened? Is he alright?”

_“Yeah, I think he’s okay. Bloody idiot was going to poison himself with a pill. But you were right about the cabbie.”_

“Really? What happened?”

 _“Someone shot him, from a fair distance too,”_ Lestrade paused briefly and sighed. _“Look, just get here as soon as you can.”_

“Will try to,” the doctor shot back. He didn’t need to say that it took him longer than it used to, Lestrade already knew. “Be there soon.”

And true to his word, John arrived at the college less than ten minutes later on foot. He smiled to himself as he approached the police tape strung between two police cruisers. Not that far away, perhaps 100 meters, Sherlock was bundled up in a blanket in the back of one of the ambulances. With him, John could hear Lestrade’s voice. “Okay, gimme.”

Then came Sherlock’s deep baritone. “The bullet you pulled from the wall is from a handgun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for. And it’s not just a marksman, but a fighter. Their hand couldn’t have shaken, so it’s someone who’s acclimatised to violence. They didn’t shoot until I was in immediate danger, so they’ve got a strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man with a history of military service…” Sherlock paused, and somehow, John knew the man’s attention was focused on him. “And nerves of steel…” Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled his attention away from the army doctor. If he didn’t know any better, he was sure he’d just described _John_ as the shooter. But that couldn’t be right, could it? John was blind, and had proven that to the detective not even two hours before. Lestrade followed Sherlock’s gaze and refrained from rolling his eyes.

Sherlock pulled Lestrade’s attention back to him when he said, “Actually, forget all that. I don’t know what I was talking about.”

Lestrade frowned. In all his years of knowing the resident genius, never once had the man left a deduction go, or even retracted his conclusions. He took another glance at the doctor waiting at the police line and tried to fit all the pieces together. From what Sherlock had been saying, it did sound a lot like he was deducing _John_ of being the shooter. After all, he’d known John for years, and knew the man was an expert marksman and doctor. John had to be with the missions he’d been called upon while he was still within the army. But Lestrade couldn’t really put in his report that the main suspect in the shooting was a blind man with an illegal weapon. So he decided to play dumb. “Sorry?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Ignore me. It’s the shock talking.” He got up and started walking toward the police tape and where John was waiting patiently.

“Where are you going?”

“I just need to talk about the… the rent.”

“I still have questions for you,” Lestrade complained.

“Oh, what _now?_ ” Sherlock whined. “I’m in shock. Look, I have a blanket.”

Giving the dark haired man a small smile, Lestrade nodded toward John. “Look out for him, Sherlock. I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?”

Giving the older detective a nod, Sherlock turned and purposely strode toward John. He pulled off the blanket draped around his shoulders and threw it in the open window of the closest police car. Before he could even say anything, John lifted his gaze and settled it on the taller man’s face.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade called me about what happened. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Nice shot.”

“Must have been, from that distance.”

Sherlock felt himself smile as John tried, and almost succeeded, looking innocent. “ _You_ would know.”

John seemed annoyed when he rebutted, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m blind. If I’d taken that shot, I could have easily killed you just as much as that cabbie.”

“But you didn’t.”

The shorter man cleared his throat and looked around. There was no one really within hearing distance, yet he was still uncomfortable talking about what he’d done to protect a man he’d just met in the open. Especially with Lestrade around wanting to know exactly what had happened that night, and also what had happened nearly three years before, while he’d been captured. Sherlock got the hint that the time to talk about it wasn’t outside the crime scene.

“Are you alright?”

“’Course I’m alright,” John shot back.

“You just killed a man…” Sherlock insisted, trying to piece together _how_ exactly John had managed to do that. Why would John risk the possibility of killing him just to get at the cabbie?

“Yes, I…” John sighed and gave Sherlock a tight smile. “That’s true, isn’t it? But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

The taller man looked over the doctor once more, just to make sure John was truly okay before he laughed slightly. “No, no he really wasn’t, was he?”

“And he was a bloody awful cabbie.”

Sherlock’s laugh became full blown at John’s dry comment, which caused the shorter man to join in with the laughter. He turned to leave the crime scene, and John slipped in to walk just off to Sherlock’s left, and half a step behind the taller man. “That’s true, he _was_ a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took to bring us here.”

“Stop it,” John chortled. “We shouldn’t be giggling at a crime scene. I can’t walk straight when I’m laughing.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on the laughter or the fact John was walking slightly behind him. It didn’t take a genius to realise what John was doing was part of the man’s way of getting around. Instead, the consulting detective picked up on the call the doctor had received from Lestrade. “Why does Lestrade have your number?”

“You know the answer to that,” John replied. “You asked me before who Clara was. Though I doubt you’ve met DI Lestrade’s sister.”

“Your sister’s soon to be ex-wife,” Sherlock mused, “is Lestrade’s sister.”

John nodded. “Mmm-hmmm.” He stopped and looked up at the consulting detective. “You were going to take the pill, weren’t you?”

“No, I wasn’t. I was just biding my time. Knew someone would show up.”

“No you didn’t,” the shorter man scoffed. “You were going to take that bloody pill just to prove you’re clever. It’s how you get your kicks.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” John said dryly. Sherlock beamed, though he knew John couldn’t see it. _Finally_ , he thought. He’d found someone who understood, and didn’t really care about his behaviour. They began walking again. “By the way, your brother’s here.” John desperately wanted to see the look on Sherlock’s face when he’d said that.

“What?” the taller man asked. John pointed in the direction of the black government car and the passengers that had just stepped out. Sherlock frowned and led the two of them over to where Mycroft was waiting for them.

“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited… but that’s not really your motivation, is it?” Mycroft asked as way of greeting.

“What are you doing here?”

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Always so aggressive. Did it not occur to you that we belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no,” Sherlock rebutted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and said, “We have more in common that you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People would suffer, and you know how that always upset Mummy.”

“ _I_ upset her? Me?” Sherlock sounded offended, even to John’s sensitive ears. “It wasn’t _me_ who upset her, Mycroft.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Sherlock.”

“The pair of you, shut up!” John cut in on the argument. He was frankly tired of it, and already had enough of the elder Holmes brother for one night. Though he was glad his earlier deductions had proven to be correct; Mycroft _was_ Sherlock’s brother. “You’re worse than Harry and me, and that’s saying something.” Turning to Mycroft, the doctor gave him his most charming smile. “Thank you for your concern, Mr Holmes. Now, if you would excuse us, we’ve had a busy day. I’ve got a headache, I’m knackered, and I’m hungry. Sherlock, let’s go.” John started on his way, leaving two dumbfounded brothers staring after him. Anthea, Mycroft’s assistant, hid her grin behind her mobile phone. It wasn’t often she saw someone stand their ground against both Holmes brothers at the same time. Or, in fact, stand their ground against her boss twice in the space of two hours.

Sherlock gave his brother a parting nod before he went after John. Once he’d caught up with the retired army doctor, he fell into step on John’s right. It took him a minute to gain the courage to actually break the companionable silence between them. “I know this good Chinese restaurant near Baker Street that’s open ‘til 2.”

John grinned. “Your brother’s a bastard.”

“Yes, he is. Care to tell me how you knew he was my brother?”

“He’s your older brother,” John amended. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. “Mycroft had his assistant pick me up earlier before we went out to Angelo’s. I figured he was a family member when he told me of his concern, and he acted the way I’d imagine a father would act. Your accents are similar as if you were part of the upper class, and you are both as observant as hell. Can’t really keep anything from you. I say older brother because he doesn’t sound old enough to be your father but still sounds older than you. A cousin wouldn’t try to meddle as much in your life. Then there's your tastes in cologne. Yours is a sandalwood, smoky scent, with a dash of chemicals and whatever other experiments you’ve got going on. His is more of an earthy, woody scent, which is similar to yours but without the experiments thrown on top.”

“Is that how you knew the woman’s coat was still damp?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock paused again and looked John over once more. There was so much hidden within the depths of the small man, and there were so many things for the detective to still learn. “You don’t really need the cane,” he stated after a moment when he noticed that John hardly seemed to use it while he was walking half a step behind the lanky detective.

“Not really, but it’s a great distraction. People tend to underestimate a person with a limp.”

“They underestimate a blind person even more.”

John laughed at that and nodded. Sherlock joined in with John’s laughter. Now, here was a man that Sherlock felt he could be himself with. Someone who could keep up with his deductions, who didn’t mind being in the background, but also could put him in his place if needed. Oh, and who understood weird family dynamics and could put Mycroft in his place. By the look on his older brother’s face, Sherlock knew that it hadn’t been the first time John had reamed him out.

Life at 221B Baker Street was going to get decisively more interesting, Sherlock thought, having Captain John Watson, MD, living there.

**SHJWSHJW**

John sat himself down at one of the corner booths, away from the busyness of the main crowd. He ordered himself a beer as he settled into wait. It wasn’t long before Lestrade slid into the booth with him. Smiling, the doctor raised his glass in welcome. “Thanks for coming, Greg. Yesterday was hectic.”

“Tell me about it,” Lestrade agreed. “How’d you meet Sherlock?”

“An old friend of mine from Bart’s introduced us.”

Lestrade looked the doctor over and saw a slight change in John’s posture and attitude. Not that big of a difference if the DI hadn’t known John so well. But he knew better than to bring it up just yet. “So, what’d you think of our resident genius?”

“Still processing the last 24 hours.”

“He aware of your ‘gift’?”

“You mean my sight?” John asked to clarify. “Yes, Sherlock knows I’m blind. It took him a while to pick up on it though.”

Lestrade laughed. “How long?”

“After I left the crime scene yesterday, it took him about ten minutes to work it out once I got back to Baker Street.”

“Wish I could’ve seen his face.”

“Wish I could explain it to you,” John laughed. “Yet, it probably wasn’t as impressive as the looks that were sent my way after I told the Holmes brothers to shut it last night when we were leaving.”

Lestrade snorted out some of the beer he’d just been drinking. “What?”

“You should know me by now, Greg. I don’t take orders easily, and I could always tell when someone was full of BS. It’s gotten so much better since I lost my sight.”

“Yeah, and are you ever going to explain to me how you managed to serve 18 months more after you actually _lost_ your sight in the first place? I know something bad happened while you were MIA. And the Army couldn’t tell us a thing. Clara and Sam were so worried.”

John swallowed hard and he looked down at his hand. He didn’t have to see it to know that his was shaking slightly. Lestrade also noticed and his eyes widened slightly. “I lost my sight,” John said flatly. “And then months later, I could see again.” He looked up at his friend and narrowed his eyes. “Leave it at that.”

“You need to talk to someone,” Lestrade pressed.

“And get treated like a lab rat?” John hissed. “People all over the world would want to study me as the first person with cameras…”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped. “Freaking hell, mate. Cameras?”

John nodded stiffly. “Not a soul, Greg.”

“’Course not. Are they…?”

“No. I may have. Last night.”

“Explains the dead cabbie,” Lestrade shot back, dryly.

“Mmm-hmmm. And why it’s not Sherlock lying dead in the morgue.”

“So… does the smart arse know how you managed to pull off that shot?”

John shook his head. “I think I’m still getting used to someone trying to deduce everything from a little piece of evidence. I want to see how long it takes him to work it out.”

Lestrade laughed. “Don’t take too long about it. Sherlock hates being kept out in the dark.”

“Try living with him then.” John stopped and considered that comment. “God help me, I’m living with him. And I’m not even going to ask how you knew the shooter was me.”


	2. How Sherlock found out about John's sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the people who want to know how Sherlock deduced John's apparent ability to 'see' when the doctor was proven to be clinically blind.

John H. Watson, M.D., Sherlock realised, had been holding out on him.  There had been something the resident genius had missed in the first 24 hours of meeting the man.  And in the light of a new day, not even a full 48 hours after John had moved into the upper room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was determined to find out what the man had withheld on their initial day together.

The first night, after the showdown between John and Mycroft (Sherlock had saved that particular incident into his Mind Palace), the consulting detective had wanted to grill John about what exactly had happened.  Yet John had said he really needed to sort things out in his own mind first.  It was hard for Sherlock to actually agree to that, but for some reason, he had.  And, from the way John had relaxed after his second night in the apartment, he was glad he’d listened to his instincts.

Smirking to himself, Sherlock looked over to where John was sitting in the chair that was quickly become ‘his’.  The smaller man was busy reading a medical journal published in braille.  The angular detective couldn’t help but remember the spitfire in John as the doctor had commanded respect from his older brother.  The smirk fell as he considered the earlier events of that night, and yet again thought about what John had actually been doing before he’d been seen just outside the police barrier while Sherlock had been talking to Lestrade.  Because, if nothing else, Sherlock _knew_ he wasn’t ever far off wrong with his deductions.

He _knew_ John had been the one to save him.  John had even admitted it at the crime scene.  John, who had been an expert marksman, had been acclimatised to war and violence, had nerves of steel (he had to, to stand up to Mycroft), had a strong moral compass, was still blind. For the bullet to have just missed Sherlock by mere millimetres (he could still hear the shot ringing in his left ear) to be buried in Jeff’s chest, whoever had taken the shot must have taken the time to line it up properly.  Especially with the handgun that was used.

So Sherlock was stumped at the puzzle presented by one John Watson.  The man that was clinically blind, but could also kill with little effort for the consulting detective.  Which left just one question to be answered: how did John manage it?

John refrained from rolling his eyes.  “Yes?” he asked, not even bothering to look in Sherlock’s direction.

“I didn’t say anything,” Sherlock returned.

“You didn’t have to,” the doctor shot back.  “I can hear your mind twirling around from over here.  Ask.”

“How did you shoot the cabbie?”

John paused in his reading.  “Is that the most important question you have, or are there other, more pressing, issues to consider?”

Sherlock frowned at that.  Yes, he wanted to know how John had managed the shot that killed Jeff.  But as he thought about what the doctor had just asked him, Sherlock realised that there were other things that didn’t really add up about John.  The next question, naturally, was how long had the doctor actually been blind?  He looked over to where John had turned his attention back to his book.  By the way his fingers were running over the pages of his book, it would seem that John had been blind a good length of time for him to be able to read braille as quickly as he did.

By what John had admitted the first time Sherlock bought up his blindness, the consulting detective knew that the man had served another year in the military before he was shot.  Which meant John had been blind for just under two years – quite remarkable if Sherlock thought about it.  Blind people could not serve in the army as the majority of their tasks was reliant on their sight.  So either John had been lying about how long he’d been blind (which, after only knowing the man for less than three full days, Sherlock knew he hadn’t been), or John had a way around the sight issue.  That was far more likely, as it would also explain how he’d manage to shoot the cabbie.

“What happened two years ago, when you lost your sight?”

John visibly stiffened and paused in his reading.  He was silent, trying to figure out how much to tell Sherlock without breaking his oath of secrecy.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking in John’s posture.  The man sat straighter and looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack.  Obviously, something traumatic happened then if it caused that kind of reaction in John.  Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say to bring John out of it.

“I was found about ten kilometres south of a known insurgence base by a patrol, beaten, starved and dehydrated,” John said, his voice flat.  It was like he was relating events that could have happened to anyone else, instead of to him.  “If the major and his men hadn’t found me when they did, I would have died before anything could have been done for me.  They took me back to base and I was in a coma for a week.  It took them twice that to get me to say more than a few words to anyone.  My recovery took me six months between when I was found and when I was fit enough to return to active duty.”

Sherlock let John’s story wash over him.  He really couldn’t imagine what the army doctor had gone through.  Swallowing hard, he allowed his gaze to drift over John’s stiff form.  It seemed that the doctor had courted death on more than one occasion.  Sherlock frowned as he thought back over what John had said:  John mentioned having been _found_ , which lead Sherlock to believe the man had been _lost_.  Oh.  _Oh…_ John had been a prisoner of war.

“How long were you declared missing in action?”

“Eight months,” John replied quietly.  His voice was hollow now.  He didn’t have to say that the eight months he’d been imprisoned was hell.  Sherlock _saw_. Saw that it had been one of the worst experiences that John had been through; saw that it was during that time that John’s sight had been forcibly been taken from him.  But also during that time, his sight had been restored, at least partially.

Because, Sherlock mused, how else could he explain John’s continued service in the army?  It was highly unlikely the British Army would have kept John on if they’d known he’d lost his sight.  They wouldn’t have paid for the cost of research into returning the sight to one decorated, but broken, solider, let alone actually given the man his sight back.  So, John had been gifted a rare thing indeed – his captors had tormented him, experimented on him, and eventually ‘gifted’ him with an imitation of sight.

Sherlock exhaled as the last piece clicked into place.  John’s _eyes._   “They implanted lenses into your eyes.  There could be a few possibilities for that.  First, it was to hide the usual cloudiness associated with blindness.  This is unlikely, as your captors wouldn’t care about your blindness.

“So that leads to the second reason: they wanted to experiment.  Perhaps someone important to their war effort was blind and they wanted to find a way to restore a blind person’s sight.  They used you as an experiment to see if they could give you your sight back.  That means they found a way to implant camera lenses into your eyes that connected to your visual cortex.  Means that whoever was experimenting had knowledge of technology and had worked with tiny cameras before.  They must have had a neurologist or eye specialist in their camp as well.  How else would they get the lenses to work?  I expect the surgery was done much like a cataract removal surgery.

“Third reason is that they wanted to plant you as a spy within the RAMC.  That’s clever, using our very own personal against us.”  Sherlock wasn’t paying much attention to the effect his deductions were having on John.  And once the brunette started rattling off his theories (more like facts, John thought), the doctor felt himself being sucked into the memories of the time he’d rather forget.

“Fourth reason,” Sherlock continued absentmindedly, “the scientist that developed the lens tech cameras may have been a prisoner as well.  They may have tried helping you, even if it was to lie about having a working prototype.  Or several prototypes, because it would have taken several attempts to get the lenses working correctly without causing additional problems with the test subjects.

“You were disposable to them.  They didn’t care if you lived or died.  The only thing they probably cared about was having a successful run at giving artificial sight to someone after they’d lost it.  That’s probably why they’d beat you and left you to die.  They may not have even known that the experiment had worked; otherwise, they would have used you...”  Sherlock looked over from the sofa where he’d been lying and trailed.  John wasn’t listening, or even really moving at all.  The book the man had been reading had slipped from his hands and had landed on its edges, tenting with the spine pointed up. 

“John?” Sherlock asked.  The blond didn’t answer.  In fact, it didn’t seem like he had heard Sherlock call his name at all.  What was wrong with the doctor?  Had Sherlock said anything wrong?  And that’s when Sherlock remembered all of the things he’d read about post-traumatic stress syndrome.  Talking about John’s eight months of hell had most likely forced the man to relive the experience.  How could he have been so stupid?  “John?” he repeated.

This time, it seemed John heard.  He took in a shuddering breath at the deep baritone calling his name a second time.  He was shaking.  Another shallow breath.  Where was he?  He could have sworn he had been back with his captors.  Back when he first lost his sight nearly three years before.

Again, that calming baritone called out to him.  “John, take in a deep breath.”  John focused on that voice and did as it commanded.  “Good.  Hold it.”  Sherlock smiled as he saw his flatmate comply.  “Now breathe out slowly.  Very good.  I’m here, John.  Take another deep breath…”  Sherlock kept talking until he saw John visibly calm down.

It was a good ten minutes before John could form a coherent sentence.  “I’m sorry… I don’t know what happened,” he apologised.

The taller man shrugged it off.  “No apology needed, John.  I should have realised earlier that it was a difficult subject for you.”  From what he’d read of PTSD, it was a common occurrence in soldiers who’d been wounded in war and sent home to recover.  And looking over his new flatmate again, just to reassure himself that John was really okay, Sherlock knew that they wouldn’t be talking much more that evening.

So he decided on the next best thing: he pushed himself up off the sofa and went to the window.  Picking up his violin, Sherlock settled it between his shoulder and chin and began playing what he hoped to be a soothing song.  A smile graced his features as he saw John relaxing back into the chair as the music washed over him.

It wasn’t long after he’d started playing that John bent over to pick up his book off the floor and returned to his reading.


End file.
